


and we will be like sailors, swimming in the sound of it

by punkpadfoot



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Post 4x11, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 00:01:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1621775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkpadfoot/pseuds/punkpadfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dully, he wonders if his heart will ever stop pounding; he wonders if the mouthfuls of whiskey will ever stop tasting like the blood he spit at his father, if he can somehow will the cold creeping up through the concrete into his veins to soothe the burn left by the adrenaline that refuses to stop scorching them. He wants to know if he will ever catch his footing again, or if he will stumble perpetually from this night forward, wary of each step, the laces of his shoes permanently untied.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and we will be like sailors, swimming in the sound of it

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [makes a cathedral, him pressing against me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1590608) by [misandrywitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misandrywitch/pseuds/misandrywitch). 



In the calm that follows – sudden, yet at the same time entirely not soon enough – Mickey is anything but.

Dully, he wonders if his heart will ever stop pounding; he wonders if the mouthfuls of whiskey will ever stop tasting like the blood he spit at his father, if he can somehow will the cold creeping up through the concrete into his veins to soothe the burn left by the adrenaline that refuses to stop scorching them. He wants to know if he will ever catch his footing again, or if he will stumble perpetually from this night forward, wary of each step, the laces of his shoes permanently untied.

He thinks, each time that Ian passes him the flask and their fingers touch, with a spark and swell of reassurance that must be entirely in his head (because he is stumbling and clambering up and then falling once more, coming up only to jerk back down, again and again until it makes him sick) – he thinks that, all things considered, it’s probably worth it to exist this way, if only for that feeling. He thinks that that feeling, fleeting as it is in this moment, would be enough for him. Maybe more than he deserves, even, after all of this. He hasn’t decided yet.

For now, in this quiet panic, in this swell of insecurity, it doesn’t matter. He will take it as if it is rightfully his. When Kev offers them a ride, they sit sandwiched in the front seat, elbows knocking and knees bumping. Thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, he pushes just to feel Ian push back, strong and steady and certain.

By time they pull up in front of his house, he feels like a thief. Mickey pulls back from the feeling and doesn’t look back as he heads inside, taking the steps up the porch two at a time. In the house it is quieter still, and he takes a slow breath, kicking his shoes off and tossing his coat in the general direction of the couch on his way to swipe a half-empty whiskey bottle from the kitchen table.  He flicks on the light in the bathroom and takes two long gulps before stepping in front of the sink, in front of the cracked mirror.

He expects to look different – and, he supposes, beaten to hell when this morning he had left the Gallagher’s clean and collected, he does. There are two great gashes across his face, dried blood flaking around his cracked lips. He touches his matted hair and lets out another slow breath. None of this feels real. Any moment he will wake up, listen to Ian’s brother ask _You love Mickey?_ from Ian’s bed, roll his eyes pretend to himself that Ian’s answer stands as such, that there’s nothing hidden in the pause before it. He will wake up and not know that this is where he will end up, or maybe he won’t end up here at all.

(Something inside him wells up, a feeling in his chest as he looks at himself, bloodied and bruised but not broken, still standing. It feels like _pride_. For a moment, he wants to grin, but it’s fleeting and he squashes it down.)

He turns on the tap and leans down to splash lukewarm water against his face, wincing when the washcloth scrapes against the cuts but scrubbing with the same vigor regardless. (When he presses down hard it feels real, the sharp ache reassuring him he won’t wake up with a pool of disappointment in his gut and a surreal dream Ian’s echo of _coward_ in his ears because he’s not.)

He doesn’t stop until he hears Ian’s, “Here, c’mere,” and pauses to watch Ian shrug out of his jacket and his shirt. “I’ll clean it out, the cut, unless you want it to be worse tomorrow.”

It’s his gut instinct to resist, but even as he does so (“This ain’t my first fucking rodeo.”) he is straightening up, leaning into the hand Ian places on his shoulder, letting himself be steered to sit on the edge of the bathtub, the same place where his mother had cleaned up scraped elbows and knees when he was a kid.

“One fucked up rodeo,” Ian says, and Mickey’s eyes follow him first as he tries to lean over, and then as he squats down in front of him, washcloth in hand. He isn’t sure if the whiskey is finally doing its leg of the work, or if he’s finally settling after the ride, but he feels like he is looking at Ian through a haze. He is blurred around the edges but beautiful, the hand on Mickey’s knee absolute. He can’t bring himself to look away. 

Ian moves to the cut on his nose and he winces, grabbing hold of Ian’s elbow and squeezing tight with a soft hiss, but Ian is quick and careful, and when he is done he can see Ian more clearly, solid once more. There is blood on his face, but it’s the bruises beginning to bloom on Ian’s ribs that twist his stomach. His hand drops from Ian’s elbow, fingers careful as they trace over the ridges of his ribcage.

“That’s gonna bruise.”  His throat feels tight. “You’re gonna be black and blue.” 

Ian shrugs, says, “I’ve had worse,” but it does nothing to soothe the way Mickey’s guts are twisting inside of him. He feels inexplicably angry. He feels _guilty_. He had never meant to drag Ian into his bullshit, even when Ian had wanted to run there headfirst. He knows it’s irrational to feel this way, unchangeable now, so he lets out a slow, heavy breath.  It’s meant to calm him but it doesn’t, just fuels another one, sharper this time, and then again, until all he can say is “fuck” and close his eyes, brows furrowed. He pulls his hand away, uncertain again, and says once more – “ _Fuck_.” – and feels like maybe he’s back to falling –  

“Hey.” Ian’s hand is soft on the back of his head, but sure of itself like his words. “Hey, Mickey. I’m here, it’s okay.”

He can breathe again now, once again caught when he was sure he’d hit the ground, and he looks at Ian. He wants to frown, or to laugh, but all he can manage is a tired, “You’ve got so much shit in your hair. Look at us, huh? Big fucking mess.”

“Mickey – ” There is a pause, and Mickey stares, until he continues, “What you did, I couldn’t have done that. It was – it was incredible.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow and snorts, winces at the way it stretches the cuts on his face, but points out dryly, “This from the guy who spends his working nights letting old men shove twenties down his pants.”

“Different kinda bar,” Ian says. “I’m not kidding though. Hey.”  He doesn’t seem so ready to let this go, to let Mickey make his jokes without acknowledging what it is that he did – whatever that is, to be honest. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel about it yet, or what it means, or any of that shit. Trust Ian to want to talk about it anyways.

And then Ian says, “You are so good. You’re brave. And I’m proud of you.”

If he were expecting anything, it wouldn’t have been that, and he stares at Ian.  That feeling is welling up in his chest again, and he remembers his untied laces and can’t decide if he’s falling or floating this time. He’s not so sure he believes any of that (good and brave aren’t the first words he would’ve chosen to describe anything he’s done in the past couple of hours), but he believes that Ian believes it, means what he says and it’s –

It’s terrifying, and thrilling. His mouth is dry, stuffed with the cotton balls of words he can’t bring himself to let loose, so instead he settles with, “Alright, long as you leave the rainbow colored streamers at home,” but it falls flat.

He doesn’t know how to do it, how to _say_ what he’s feeling – how to say _I don’t feel brave_ , how to say he isn’t so sure he feels _good,_ whatever that means, how to say _what now, Gallagher, because I think I might be freakin’ the fuck out here_. He definitely doesn’t know how to say _thank you_ , and Ian deserves at least that much. Mickey knows he’s said so much today but it isn’t enough, it hasn’t been enough from the very start.

Ian doesn’t seem to mind much, though, because he smiles. “Yeah, sorry, forgot ‘em. They’re at home with my parade floats and my ‘Mickey Milkovich is gay’ banner.” 

It hits him all at once. He laughs, a short bark of it, wants to say _god, you’re such a shit_ but his throat is too tight and he finds himself gasping for air instead. He doesn’t even realize what’s happening until Ian pulls him closer, when he realizes those god awful sounds are coming from _himself_ , that it’s not Ian who is moving, it’s him who’s shaking. He doesn’t think he’s ever cried like this, hard and angry and without abandon, fingers grappling desperately against Ian’s torso, scraping along his shoulder blades in a desperate attempt to keep him there. Ian kisses the top of his head again, and Mickey squeezes his shoulders tight. 

And just as quickly as it came on, he decides that that’s enough. He leans back just as quickly, wiping his eyes with the heels of his hands, and takes a shaky breath as he stands. That was enough. Out of his system, and now they need to clean up, because as cathartic as it might be to sit in the bathroom and cry all night, that’s not how they do things. 

He turns on the shower and shrugs out of his bloodied shirt, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor when he steps in. Standing still in the burn of the spray for a moment, he lets it melt some of the tension from his shoulders until Ian steps in as well. Passing him the soap, he nearly suggests Ian get to work on helping him get all this crap out of his hair, but Ian beats him to the punch – “You do have nice legs.”

He tries not to, but the grin stretches across his lips and he can’t help but laugh, shaking his head as he stares at Ian. 

“God,” Mickey says, “you’re such an idiot.” He touches Ian’s ribs again, gentle and careful, and then Ian’s collarbone, until he’s brushing his thumb across Ian’s chin because fuck, Ian is such an _idiot_ and Mickey cares about him so much and he can’t _say it_ , but he’s shown it. He hopes he’s shown it.

Ian leans across and kisses him, soft but not careful, unhurried but _certain,_ so certain, and Mickey thinks he’s probably done something right along the way. He closes his eyes and, for now, he can let himself feel good. He sucks in a deep breath when Ian kisses the top of his head, his knuckles, that spot on his throat, because that feeling is back in his chest again and he thinks, for once, he can have this.

When they crawl into bed they are clean, and Mickey feels exhausted. In the dark of his room the overwhelming feelings try to creep back in, but he’s too tired to cry, too tired to do anything but lay there next to Ian and let his eyes burn. When Ian pulls him close he curls in next to him, and when Ian starts to speak, he squeezes his eyes shut. It feels different here, to say these things and pay these compliments in the dark, in bed; he doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s the repetition. He wants to remember them forever and believe them all even if it isn’t easy.

“You are good,” Ian tells him again. “You’re a shithead but you’re good. And you do have nice legs.”

Mickey tries not to crack a smile, even though Ian won’t see it, and mutters, “You gonna yak my ear off for the rest of eternity or what?” He’s not even going to agonize over what to say. Fuck it. Ian gets it. Ian can’t say everything either, but this is Ian telling him that he gets it.

“You’re fucking funny,” Ian presses on. “Nobody makes me laugh like you do. You’re smarter than you think. Your sweet tooth is fucking adorable.” 

This is ridiculous, so ridiculous that Ian says these things and so ridiculous that he likes them, so he says sleepily, without any venom, “Ian, you are so gay.”

“You’re better at shotgunning beers than anyone I’ve ever met,” and Mickey wonders how long this is gonna go on for, how much ridiculous shit Ian can say before he falls asleep. “You’re a good kisser. You’re really, really good at taking it.” He holds back a sleepy snort but pinches Ian’s thigh – not too hard, and his fingers rub soft circles in the spot before resting there.

Ian goes on, and he’s too tired to worry about what he deserves and what he doesn’t at this very moment, too close to drifting off to squash that swelling feeling in his chest again. This is his, to have – he might feel like a thief sometimes, when he’s tripping and stumbling and his tongue is to heavy to say the words that he’s supposed to, but he can’t steal what’s already being offered.

**Author's Note:**

> so i said to sarah, "what if i wrote a fic from mickey's perspective as a companion piece to your fic, would that be gay?" and she said, "yeah, definitely gay. do it."
> 
> title from 'saying your names' by richard siken. all dialogue directly lifted from sarah's fic.


End file.
